


The Next Galahad

by wallmakerrelict



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Ensemble Cast, Gen, M/M, Prequel, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-03-21 12:29:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3692328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wallmakerrelict/pseuds/wallmakerrelict
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Hart is young and directionless when he is offered a chance to change his life by becoming a Kingsman agent. As he fights his way through the selection process, he finds that he is just as motivated by his growing friendship with the other candidates (and his burgeoning crush on the handsome quartermaster overseeing his tests) as he is by the opportunity to be an international spy. But training is over too quickly, and the real world is a harsher teacher than Merlin ever was - for all of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shit shit, he's cute

"At this point we're basically waiting for each other to die. It's dreadfully tedious." 

Whenever Harry Hart was invited to high tea with his aunt Regina, it was guaranteed to be interesting. Regina Woodward was that singular breed of elderly aristocrat who gave precisely as much of a shit about status and decorum as she felt like at any given time, and no more. For instance, at the moment she was wearing an immaculate designer dress with a high lace neckline and intricate beading around the hem, some elegant slippers, and to top it off the ugliest pair of thick-rimmed glasses Harry had ever seen. 

Harry was fairly sure she wasn't trying to make any particular statement with the glasses. Regina simply did what Regina wanted. 

Harry had been listening to her babble on for the last thirty minutes or so about the intricacies of a group of people she knew. To be honest, he hadn't been paying the best of attention. Was it the people she worked with? No, Harry couldn't even imagine his aunt Regina holding down a job. It wasn't as if she needed the money, and she spent far too much time abroad to be someone's employee. Just the other month she was supposed to accompany Harry's brother to a polo match, but instead she'd popped off to Hungary for the weekend at a moment's notice without so much as an explanation. What boss would tolerate her? 

She must have been talking about some social group she belonged to, then. But that last bit. Waiting for someone to die? Harry quickly finished chewing his bite of egg sandwich so he could reply, "Sorry, tedious?" 

"Yes, dear," said Regina as she dropped a spoonful of clotted cream onto a scone. "It's not as if Arthur can get rid of me, short of sending me on mission as often as he possibly can. And it's not as if I can get rid of him, short of killing him, and I'm not quite _that_ exasperated with the man yet. But he knows as well as I that when he steps down, the knight with the most seniority takes his place. And with very nearly forty years in the service, the knight with seniority is damn well me."

Harry almost said something, but then he decided that it was probably safer to take another bite of his sandwich instead. Sometimes he wondered if Regina was only so fond of him because he knew when to shut up and let her talk. She certainly was under no social pressure to keep him around. He was only twenty-four, from a good family but the youngest and least-accomplished of three brothers, with very few connections outside his immediate relatives. Regina wasn't even his real aunt. She was just a friend of his mother's. It was practically charitable of her to invite him over for private teas. 

And she was still talking. "Arthur thinks he can wait me out. He thinks if he just holds on a little longer, I'll retire or die and then he can hand Kingsman over to Chet – his precious Lancelot. Well, that's what he thought when I turned sixty-five, and it's been ten fucking years since then. I'll have Kingsman if I have to pry it out of his cold, dead fingers. Pass the sugar, dear." 

Harry passed the sugar. But this time he couldn't hold it in. "Ah," he said. "And Kingsman is...?"

Regina regarded Harry over the tops of her hideous glasses as she took a sip of tea. "A covert intelligence organization." 

Harry laughed nervously. Regina didn't so much as crack a smile. 

"Like spies? You mean a spy organization?"

"Yes."

"So you're a spy, then?"

"Yes." 

Harry started to put the rest of his sandwich down on his plate, then picked it back up again. He looked down at the table, left, right, and back at his aunt. She was staring at him, eerily quiet, waiting for his response. He raised the sandwich to his mouth. 

"Harry, if you take another bite of that sandwich instead of saying something useful, so help me I will smack it out of your hand," said Regina. 

Harry put the sandwich down and said, "Supposing I believe you and this isn't the weirdest prank you've ever pulled on me, why are you telling me this?" 

"Oh, my dear. If this were a prank it would be _far_ from the weirdest I've ever pulled," said Regina with a laugh. "And I'm telling you because we have an opening, and I am seriously considering proposing you for the job." 

Harry searched his aunt's face for any hint of a smirk or a wink. Finding nothing, he resolved to play along. "Why me? I've never fired a gun or been in a fight. I don't even think I could run a mile if there were wild dogs chasing me. Why not my brothers? Brandon's a rugby champion, and Ron's in the army. Either of them would make a better spy than me."

Regina nodded approvingly. "Now you're asking the right sort of questions. I won't lie to you – you'll be somewhat out of place among the other candidates. They do tend to skew toward the physically gifted and yes, most of them end up being former military. But Kingsman can teach you to run and fight and shoot. The reason I'm proposing you is because you already have the most important attribute."

"Which is?"

"Diplomacy," said Regina. "Espionage is nothing if not a lot of very sneaky politics. You studied linguistics at school. You speak five languages, and your professors say that you pick up new ones at the drop of a hat. Your father may have gotten your foot in the door for that job at the British Embassy in Berlin, but by all accounts you were doing magnificently. You're thoughtful, considerate, and you aren't in love with the sound of your own voice like some of the windbags that currently call themselves Kingsman knights. The only blot on your record would seem to be the way you exited that aforementioned embassy position."

Harry felt his cheeks prickle with heat. He retrieved the rest of his sandwich and stuffed it in his mouth. 

"You were dismissed rather ungraciously after you were caught _in flagrante delicto_ with a married, male, German attaché. Returned home in disgrace, your father will barely speak to you, et cetera." 

"How do you know about that?" Harry's father, in between purple-faced screamed reprimands, had assured him that the details of his dismissal would be kept under the tightest wraps money could buy. 

Regina raised an eyebrow and crooked a finger toward herself. "Spy," she reminded her nephew. 

Harry, crimson-faced, snatched one of the miniature trifles off the top of the tower. If he had to leave Regina's home in humiliation, he was at least going to eat dessert first. 

"I only have one question about all that," said Regina, ignoring the way Harry was inhaling his trifle as though he expected to be kicked out at any moment. "What was he to you? Was it just sex? Or did you care for him?"

Harry was sure he had never been so mortified. But to be fair, no one had bothered to ask him that question before. And because his reputation with Regina Woodward was surely already ruined, he didn't see the harm in giving her an honest answer. "I thought I loved him," Harry muttered. 

"Good."

"Sorry, did you say good?"

"Yes," said Regina. "That means you aren't the kind of imbecile who would throw away a promising career for a cute piece of tail; you are simply a young and particularly idiotic romantic. And, having made that mistake once already with disastrous consequences, you will not be likely to make it again in future. _Good_." 

Harry bristled. "Mistake? You mean falling for a man?" 

"I mean dating in the workplace, you daft boy," Regina snapped. "It always ends badly. Always. I trust you've learned your lesson."

"Does this mean I get to be a spy?"

Regina waved a teaspoon at him threateningly. "It means you get a chance," she said. "Please don't think it will be easy. The other knights and Arthur will each propose their own candidates, and they will be stiff competition for you. You will be trained and tested. The process is rather grueling, and depending on the mix of candidates it can last upwards of six months."

"Six months?!" 

"We do not choose Kingsman knights lightly." Regina slid a card across the table to Harry. It was for a tailor shop on Savile Row. "Think it over. And if you're still interested, meet me there tomorrow."

The rest of tea passed pleasantly enough, and they didn't speak of Kingsman again until the dishes were cleared away and Regina had sent one of her staff to fetch Harry's coat. Then Harry ventured, "Aunt Regina, I don't understand. How do you know that, instead of meeting you at the tailor tomorrow, I won't go tell everyone your secret?" 

Regina stood on tip-toe to give him a kiss goodbye on the cheek. "Harry, I've spent most of my adult life cultivating the perfect persona of an eccentric old spinster who's so rich that she barely has to wipe her own arse anymore. Tell whoever you like." 

She leaned in close and whispered in his ear, "They won't believe you."

\-----

The dormitory was a single, sparse room with two rows of beds and a low wall separating them from a cluster of curtain-less showers and toilets. Everything was concrete, metal, and glass. It felt less like a training camp for potential spies and more like a prison cell. 

Perhaps that was just Harry's expectations at play. After all, the luscious Kingsman tailor shop, the sleek underground train, and the staggering base with its garage and arsenal had readied Harry for palatial accommodations. Instead, he'd been left alone in a room that would have been better suited to a submarine than to a mansion.

The sound of the door handle turning echoed in the concrete box of a room. Harry turned just in time to see a cute, oval face framed by a tumble of brown ringlets peek in from behind the door. "Oh, is this the right place?" the girl asked. 

"I think so," said Harry, mustering up a cheerful smile and offering her his hand. "If you're looking for Detention Block B, that is. I'm Harry Hart." 

She laughed as she shook his hand. "It is rather gloomy, isn't it? Abigail Winter. I'm Arthur's proposal. You?"

"Percival's." Aunt Regina had told him her code name on the train ride over, and warned him not to go throwing around her real name with people who weren't yet confirmed Kingsman agents. 

"Ah, the woman?" said Abigail brightly. "Arthur's told me about her. He's a bit grumpy that she's next in line for his job, but I admire her. It takes guts to stick it out as the only woman in an old boy's club like Kingsman. Watch this – I'll bet you ten quid all the other proposals who show up are men." 

If Harry had taken that bet, he would have lost. The next two through the door were a freckle-faced strawberry blond who introduced himself as Fred Lyons, and a broad-shouldered black man with a serious expression and the name Garrett Richardson. 

"I've been working for Kingsman for years," said Fred when he overheard Harry and Abigail talking about how they'd taken the news that their mentors were international spies. "No one had to break anything to me except that I had a shot to move up to the big leagues."

"How did you work for Kingsman if you weren't a knight?" Abigail asked. 

Fred pointed at the wall in the direction of the way they'd all come to get there. "You saw the giant hangar full of every weapon and vehicle known to man, yeah? Who do you think takes care of all that? Behind the Kingsman knights there's a small army of support staff, from the guy who changes the oil in the sports cars to the man who runs the tailor shop on Savile Row."

"And what was your contribution?" said Harry. 

With a grin, Fred pulled a silver necklace from inside the front of his shirt. Dangling on the chain was a steel grenade pin. "Demolitions," he said. 

"You were military, then?" said Garrett. He was a big man, but his voice was surprisingly high and gentle. He was the oldest of the group by far. Harry estimated that he was close to thirty. 

"Nah," said Fred with a grin. "Just always liked things that went boom. You?"

"Royal Marines," Garrett replied. "I was a sniper." 

"It doesn't count if you're sniping on a range, you know," said a haughty voice as another candidate swaggered in through the door. He was almost as tall as Garrett, with auburn hair and dimples that showed when he smiled. The dimples would have been more charming if his smile had been kinder. "If you've seen any real action, then you're even older than you look." 

The four of them turned to meet the newcomer. Harry was about to speak up, but Garrett beat him to it. His voice was just as calm as before but his diction became very precise, the same way Regina's sometimes did when she was speaking to an idiot who was not worth the time it would take to explain to them what an idiot they were. 

"I was with the United Nations peacekeeping force in Cyprus," said Garrett. "So I've seen a bit." 

As the last few candidates straggled in, Harry, Abigail, Fred, and Garrett gravitated off to one side of the room, separating themselves from the others. Harry finally managed to relax for the first time since stepping out of the cab on Savile Row. He liked his little group. He could even see himself living in this ugly dormitory for the next six months, if it meant sharing it with them. He laughed at Fred's jokes and nodded at Abigail's observations, and listened in on the introductions going on across the room just enough to learn that the name of the dimpled boy who had tried to provoke Garret was Alan Oldridge. 

"Is that all of us?" Harry wondered aloud, glancing around the room.

"Should be," said Abigail. "There are eight of us. Eight knights, plus Arthur, minus the knight we're meant to replace. Eight proposals."

"Then who is he?" said Fred, pointing. There was one more person coming through the door. 

He was young. Possibly the youngest in the room, but he entered with more confidence than anyone else who had walked through that door. He was tall but lean, just this side of gangly. He had a high forehead, a strong jaw, and black hair cropped short. He would have looked very serious with his wool jacket and steel clipboard, except that he was wearing the same kind of ridiculous glasses that Regina had worn yesterday and they were making his ears stick out a little. 

Harry swallowed hard. His tie felt tighter than it had a moment ago. _Shit,_ he thought.

"Who proposed _him?_ " someone snickered from the other side of the room. 

The young man with the clipboard and the ears took a long look around the room, surveying each face in turn. Then he said, "Fall in," with enough authority to stop all conversation in the room mid-word. 

Garrett and Abigail, along with three of the candidates from outside Harry's little group, sprang to attention with the alacrity of military training. Harry jumped to join them in line, and Fred scampered after. Alan Oldridge took a second to look around incredulously before reluctantly following suit. 

"My name is Merlin," said the newcomer. "To answer your first two questions, no, that is not my real name. And yes, you do have to call me Merlin anyway."

He had a Scottish accent thick enough to drown in. _Shit._

Merlin went on, "You are here to compete for the title of Galahad, and I am here to oversee the selection process. Until you are confirmed as Galahad, you don't report to Kingsman. You don't report to the knight who proposed you. You don't report to Arthur. You report to me." 

_Shit._

Abigail tapped Harry with her elbow, a concerned look on her face. Harry realized that his mouth was open. 

"The next several months – if you last that long – will be the most demanding and competitive of your lives. Your safety is not guaranteed. And if you prevail, your reward will be a life of dangerous assignments and absolute secrecy. Speaking of secrecy..." 

Here Merlin stepped forward and locked eyes with each candidate in turn. Fred smiled at Merlin nervously. Alan flashed his eyebrows and smirked. Those who had been in the military stared forward and didn't meet his gaze. Harry couldn't stop staring at Merlin's clavicle peeking out from above his collar. _Shit._

"Kingsman is a covert organization. Its ability to operate within the seams of society and government relies upon a code of silence and trust on the part of everyone privy to even the most trivial of its secrets. 

"If you do not perform at or above the level of your peers in the tests, your candidacy will be revoked and you will be sent home. If at any time you break this aforementioned code of trust, your candidacy will be revoked... and the consequences will be much direr than a one-way train ticket. Is that understood?"

A chorus of, "Yes, sir," came from the military set. Fred said, "Yeah, okay." Harry forgot to say anything.

"Good," said Merlin. "Fall out." 

As he turned to leave, Harry couldn't help but notice the long legs and shapely rear beneath Merlin's immaculately-tailored trousers, until the door closed behind him and Harry was left staring at the wall. 

_Shit shit shit._

The buzz of conversation resumed. No one seemed to notice Harry's consternation except for Abigail, who looked up at him with a gentle smile that was threatening to break into a laugh. "He's quite cute, isn't he?" she remarked quietly. 

Alan overheard. "Girls," he scoffed. "Only one thing on their minds." 

Harry stared at the door, his heart pounding, Regina's warning about making the same mistake twice ringing in his ears, and wondered what he had done to anger a vengeful God.


	2. The eye in the sky

The eight proposals settled uneasily into their new surroundings. They were as tightly packed as sardines in a can, so even simple things like eating supper and showering became highly awkward. Luckily, there was an adjoining private washroom for anyone who objected to the dormitory's open floor plan. Abigail and Fred both availed themselves of it, Abigail because, "I wouldn't mind if it was just you boys, but that Alan has been ogling me since he walked in," and Fred because, "How the hell am I supposed to have a wank with everyone watching and a full-length mirror?" 

At dusk, the lights in the room dimmed to cue them all to go to sleep. When the last of them was in bed, the lights shut off. It was utterly dark. 

It was just as dark when Harry opened his eyes. But he wasn't in the scratchy sheets on the hard cot where he had fallen asleep. The surface he was lying on was damp and lumpy, and the air was cold. 

He sat up and groped around. He was outside. He could feel a chilly breeze on his cheeks and hear the soft sounds of insects and swaying trees. He was lying on packed soil; he could feel it beneath his hand. It had rained recently. He could taste it in the damp air. It was so pitch dark that he couldn't see so much as his hand in front of his face. 

"Who's there?" a voice whispered from Harry's left, accompanied by the sound of a large body making its careful way through underbrush. 

"Harry. Is that you, Garrett?" 

"Yeah," said Garrett. He reached Harry's side and put a hand on his shoulder. "Do you know where we are?"

"Haven't the foggiest."

"Can you see?"

"It's the middle of the night..."

Garrett's hand tightened on Harry's shoulder. "Harry," he said. "It's a full moon tonight. It's not that dark. Can you see?" 

Harry looked left and right. His eyes had had time to adjust to the low light, but he still couldn't make out even rough shapes. He looked up and couldn't see the stars. 

It wasn't dark. He was blind. "No," he said, his voice calmer than he'd expected it to be. 

"Pity," said Garrett with a sigh. "None of us can, either." 

Garrett helped Harry to his feet and led him back the way he'd came, both of them shuffling and tripping their way around roots and bushes. Harry heard the low hum of conversation, but couldn't make out any of the voices. 

"I found Harry," said Garrett. "He can't see, either." 

"Hi, Harry!" said Abigail's voice, sounding small. 

"Then what good is he?" muttered a voice that Harry recognized as Alan's. 

A few more voices murmured a greeting. "Is this everyone?" Harry asked. 

"We're still looking for Fred," said Abigail. 

A soft, electronic beeping came from the front pocket of Harry's pajamas. A chorus of similar beeps sounded throughout the group. Harry put his hand to his pocket to find a folded pair of glasses there. One by one, everyone put theirs on. 

"Fred Lyons is approximately twelve paces north and five paces west of your position," said a familiar Scottish brogue into Harry's ear. "Follow the sound of the stream. That's to your right, Garrett." 

By the gasps and whispers among the group, they had all heard Merlin's voice too. 

The leaves on the ground crunched as Garrett shuffled through them. "This way?" he said. 

"Yes," said Merlin. "Little to your left, and watch out for that tree."

Merlin's voice was so clear that it was like he was standing right next to Harry. But underneath it Harry could pick out the crackly hum of interference. He raised his hands to his face and felt the outline of the glasses. They were the same thick-rimmed monstrosities that Regina and Merlin had been wearing. "There's a two-way radio in the glasses," said Harry to himself. 

"Precisely," Merlin answered. "They are also transmitting live video feeds to me." 

The sound of heavy, shuffling steps heralded Garrett's return a minute later. "I've got Fred," he announced to the group.

Sure enough, the sound of Fred crashing through a shrub followed soon after. "What the actual hell is going on?" Fred demanded. 

Merlin answered him, "You are all currently three kilometers out into the grounds around the Kingsman estate. Your task is to get back to the mansion by morning. Your training starts at sunrise, so you won't want to be late." 

"Okay, but why can't we see?" Abigail demanded. 

"When you're on mission," said Merlin, "you need to trust your handler without thought, without question. I am your eye in the sky. And right now, I am your literal eyes as well. Listen to me, and I'll guide you home." 

That was easier said than done. Merlin was splitting his attention between eight people. It took nearly ten minutes just to get them all pointed in the right direction and moving more or less as a group. Harry imagined that they must have been quite a sight: eight young people in their pajamas taking tiny, careful steps, their hands groping in front of them for low-hanging branches. There were occasional muttered curses as people jammed their toes on roots and scraped their knuckles on tree bark. 

Harry tried to concentrate on moving forward and keeping the others within hearing distance. Garrett's deliberate footsteps were on his right. Abigail's delicate ones were to his left. Behind him and to each side he could hear more people moving around him, but there was no way to differentiate one from the other. 

"Duck, Harry," said Merlin's voice in his ear. 

Harry raised his hand as he dipped his head, and felt the heavy branch that he'd almost walked into nose-first. "Thanks," he said.

"Don't mention it." 

After that near miss, he was listening for Merlin's instructions. So when Merlin said, "Harry, stop," he stopped in his tracks. 

"What is it?"

"Look down."

Harry looked down, seeing nothing. 

"Okay," said Merlin. "Take a step, but lift your feet as high off the ground as you can. After that you can keep going normally." 

Harry picked each foot up one by one and stepped a clumsy, arcing step. "Why did I just do that?" he asked as he continued forward. 

"He's just fucking with you," said Alan's grumpy voice from a few metres behind Harry. "Trying to make you look stupid."

Merlin had surely heard the comment, but seemed to ignore it. "You next, Alan. In three steps, lift your feet up high."

"Fuck you, Mac," said Alan. A second later, Harry whirled around at the _twang_ of taut string and a pained yelp from Alan. 

The others had heard it too. "What happened?" Garrett called from the front of the group. 

Alan's reply came from above their heads. "A fucking tripwire! I'm caught in a net. Merlin, you sadistic fuck. Get me out of here!" 

"Harry," said Merlin quietly, and with an unmistakable edge of smugness. " _That's_ why." 

It took them over an hour to cover those three kilometers. Part of that was spent getting Alan out of the tree. More booby traps slowed their progress even further – Fred reacted too slowly and fell into a freshly dug pit, and one of the other boys mixed up his left from his right and walked right onto a pressure plate that doused him with water. In that chilly night air, Harry thought that he probably would have preferred the pit or the net. 

Once the trees thinned out and they made it to the manicured lawns around the estate, they were able to walk more normally. Harry even dropped his hands and stopped shuffling. He tried to keep up his speed. With any luck they would get back with enough time for a shower and breakfast before training began. 

"Uh, Harry," said Merlin. His voice had grown as tired as their legs. He had spent the last hour constantly whispering in each person's ear, nudging them this way or that, keeping them from wandering astray or into danger. His instructions were no longer as crisp and confident as before. "Get back toward the group."

"Which way is the group?" said Harry. They had spread out when they reached the lawn, no longer feeling like they needed to huddle close for safety. The only person Harry had kept track of was Garrett, whose heavy steps were still just ahead of him and to his right. 

"Ri... no, left. Wait, just wait a minute... Fuck, Harry, look out!" 

The ground dropped out from under Harry with a lurch and the splintering of old wood. For one awful moment, he was falling. Then rough hands dug fingers painfully into his shoulder and his sleeve, and Garrett was dragging him back up and onto the grass. "I've got you! I've got you!" Garrett grunted as he pulled. Harry's hands clutched at the earth as his feet kicked in empty space. He felt the rotten slivers of the boards he had broken and the rough brick of the walls of the pit he had almost fallen into, and deep below he heard a faint splash. 

"Did I almost just fall down a well?" he demanded, panting through the adrenaline. The pit Fred had fallen into had been no more than two metres deep. By the echo, the well was far deeper. This trap hadn't been prepared as part of the test; Harry could have died. 

"Well done, Garrett," said Merlin, his sigh of relief audible over the radio. "And, um, yes, I think that was a well. It wasn't marked on my map..." 

"All right, Harry?" said Garrett's reedy voice as he pulled Harry back onto his feet. 

"Been better," said Harry ruefully. He'd barked his shin against the broken boards and could already feel blood seeping through his pajamas. "Let's get back, shall we?" 

The eight of them straggled in bruised, bloodied, filthy, and exhausted. Lawn gave way to cobblestone, which gave way to concrete. As they neared the mansion itself, Harry thought he heard an echo over the com. It took him a moment to realize that he was actually hearing Merlin's voice twice – once through the glasses and again in the flesh, right in front of him. 

"You've made it," Merlin said. Like Harry and the others, he sounded less triumphant and more like he was just glad it was over. "Hold out your arms and roll up your sleeves, please."

Everyone obeyed. Merlin went down the line one by one. When he reached Harry, there was the prick of a needle and a pulsing warmth in his arm. A second later Merlin's outline started to appear in front of him, illuminated by the setting moon and the electric lights around the courtyard. Merlin's right hand held a syringe. His left was still holding Harry's wrist. 

Harry meant to say, "It's good to be able to see again," but somehow it came out as, "It's good to see you again." 

Merlin gave him an uncertain look. He glanced down at the dried blood on Harry's torn pajama leg. "Check in with the medic before you report for training this morning," he said, and kept moving down the line. 

\-----

Training was brutal. Everyone seemed to be prepared for it except Harry. 

The former military crowd breezed through the long morning of calisthenics. Even Fred, with his pasty complexion and chubby build, was in better shape than he looked. As they jogged laps around the grounds to finish off the day, they were all flushed and sweating but still teasing each other and shouting encouragement. 

Harry wished he had enough breath for a single word. He felt like he was going to die. Everyone had stopped trying to encourage him; they seemed to have accepted that anything they might say to him was just a distraction from the important task of keeping his legs under him. 

They finally made it back to the courtyard and were dismissed for a half-hour break before the classroom work scheduled for the evening. The group made their way back inside, heading for the dorm and its showers. 

Harry hung back and slipped away before he made it inside. He was still breathing in gulps and his lungs felt dry and raw. He could feel his sweaty hair sticking to his forehead and he thought his knees might be literally knocking together. The thought of following the group back to the dorms in his state was unbearable. Alan would laugh at him. And even worse, Abigail would offer him pitying reassurances that it was going to be okay, that it would get better soon. He didn't want to hear about how it would get better. He wanted to lie on the ground and never get back up again. Instead he slunk around the side of the staircase, just out of sight, just long enough to catch his breath before rejoining the others. 

It took him a few seconds to realize that he was not alone there. 

Merlin was leaning against the stairwell, his long back hunched furtively, his eyes wide and guilty. His hands were cupped around a pack of cigarettes. He stared wordlessly at Harry, who was struggling for breath with his hands on his knees, sweat dripping off his fringe, his eyes just as wide. They stood there for one second of mutual mortification. 

Finally Harry broke the silence by holding out his hand and gasping, "Can I have one, then?"

Merlin moved to put the pack back in his pocket. "I'm trying to quit," he mumbled. 

"Let me have one and we'll call it even for you almost dropping me down that well this morning," said Harry with an attempt at a smile. 

Merlin pressed his lips together and hunched his shoulders. Then, faced with Harry's awkward smile, he sighed, relaxed, and passed him a cigarette. "Yeah, sorry about that," he said. A second of hesitation and he took one for himself too. 

"It's already forgotten," Harry replied as Merlin pulled out a book of matches and lit each of them up. The first drag didn't do anything for his lungs, but it made his head feel a little lighter and forced him to take a real breath instead of sucking air. Soon he was almost breathing normally. 

It wasn't as if they were breaking any rules – Harry couldn't imagine that Kingsman would frown on a bit of tobacco. But it was something about the way they were tucked into the bricks of the stairwell, or maybe the way Merlin held the cigarette between his long fingers and pouted his lips around it as he inhaled. Harry felt like he had back when he was fourteen and sneaking out behind the school for a smoke. Or back when he was seventeen, and he had mostly kicked his cigarette habit but was still sneaking around behind the school to kiss a boy in the year below him. 

"You're new at this, aren't you?" said Harry. 

"At this?" said Merlin, holding up his cigarette. "Hardly."

"No. At this." Harry gestured to everything around them, to the estate, to the base beneath them. "At Kingsman."

A bit of that guarded look returned to Merlin's eyes. "What makes you say that?" 

Harry took another puff of his cigarette and replied, "Fred told us he worked with the quartermaster a few times back when he was in the demolitions department. Said he was a Welsh man in his sixties, also went by 'Merlin.' Fred never saw you until yesterday. We figure the old Merlin retired and you took his place." He raised an eyebrow and added, "That, and you look like a goddamn teenager."

Merlin shot him the politest of sneers. "I'm not a teenager," he said. "But you're right. Arthur brought me in to replace the last Merlin. I started just before you lot got here."

"Did they make you go through this shit?" Harry asked, indicating the yard where he and the others had just spent the morning in basic training. 

"No, but I could run laps around you, I'll bet," said Merlin with a shy grin. Somehow, the teasing wasn't as bad as Harry anticipated when it came from him. He went on, "I'm not a knight. There's no selection process. The Merlin position is an appointment by whoever happens to be Arthur."

"So Arthur just said your name and you had the job?" Harry scoffed. "Seems too easy."

"It's all politics. Merlin is a powerful position in Kingsman. The Arthurs all want to fill it with someone they trust. Or someone they think they can control."

"Does Arthur think he can control you?" 

Merlin shrugged. "Maybe. Doesn't really matter. Arthur wants to retire." 

Harry couldn't help but chuckle. "He won't, though. Not until Percival goes first." 

That made Merlin laugh, too. "They're both stubborn, but Percival will wait him out. Or not. The next Arthur might be Lancelot instead. Either way, when they take over they'll find a Merlin they like better and kick me out." 

"They can do that?"

"Arthur warned me when I took the job that it would be temporary. When a new Arthur comes along, they tend to change the court to suit themselves as much as they possibly can." 

"And you're okay with that?"

Merlin's eyes flashed. "No," he said with an expression more determined and sincere than anything Harry had seen on his face so far. "Kingsman isn't just a job to me. It's a chance to change my life. So I figure I've got until Arthur retires to make myself so indispensable that whoever takes his place doesn't dare get rid of me." 

"Good," Harry replied. His cigarette had burned down to nothing. He dropped it on the ground and crushed it under his boot. "Because I'm going to be Galahad soon, and I need you to keep being my eye in the sky." 

Merlin called after him as he left the stairwell to go catch up with the other candidates, "Don't get ahead of yourself. You've got a long way to go." But when Harry looked back, he thought he saw the faintest of blushes on Merlin's cheeks. 

\-----

Harry stood in front of the stacked cages, considering each one in turn. He had always wanted a dog. 

Alan went straight for the Golden retriever and Abigail made a bee-line for the German Shepherd. Garrett stood beside Harry for a moment, considering, but soon he made a decisive move for the wrinkly little Bloodhound puppy. The Rottweiler and the Doberman quickly disappeared as well. Harry didn't mind. He intended to take his time. 

Soon it was just Harry and Fred left. Fred's hand almost went to the door of the Border collie's cage, but in the end he leashed the Springer spaniel and got back in line. 

Harry looked up at the stair where Merlin stood over them, watching. He had no doubt that Merlin was judging all their selections ferociously. There were only a few puppies left to choose from. What would it say about him if he picked the Mastiff? The Labrador? The Cavalier? 

There was a little ball of wiry wheaten fluff in the corner cage on the lowest level. Harry had to stoop down to recognize it as a Cairn terrier. The little dog put its front paws on the front of the cage and whined softly. Cairns were a small breed, but tough. Independent. Stubborn. Fierce. 

A Scottish breed. 

Harry opened the cage, scooped up the puppy, and rejoined his friends. 

As they filed back inside, Merlin waited for Harry by the door. "Really?" he said incredulously, glancing down at the little ball of fluff that was currently falling asleep in Harry's arms. 

Harry stepped out of line and waited for the rest of the group to pass him. "He reminds me of someone," he said with a cheeky smile once they were alone. 

"What are you going to call him?" 

"Don't know. Hm. What's your real name?" 

Merlin barked a laugh. "I wasn't going to tell you before," he said. "But now I'm _really_ not going to tell you." 

"Pity," said Harry. "Any suggestions, then?" 

"Just call him something simple and tough. He already looks like he belongs in some dowager's purse. Don't give him a stupid name on top of that." 

"What, you mean like Colonel Fluffikins or Mister Pickle?" 

An expression of existential pain crossed Merlin's face. "Oh Christ, you can't name him that."

"Well, I wasn't really going to," said Harry, barely suppressing his glee, "but now I have to."

Harry opened the door and held it for Merlin. Merlin rolled his eyes and accepted the courtesy grudgingly, still clearly scandalized by Harry's choice of dog name. Together they made their way through the sumptuous lobby of the Kingsman mansion and through a secret door into the spartan hallways of the base below. Harry had just barely learned to navigate the labyrinth of tunnels well enough to get himself back to the dorm. He didn't dare venture down the many side hallways for fear of getting lost. 

Up ahead, the hallway split in a fork. The dorm was to the right. Merlin went left. Harry followed. 

"Did they give you a dog, too?" Harry wondered.

"No," said Merlin. "I prefer cats, anyway." 

"You would." 

"Why are you following me?"

"Would you prefer I left you alone?"

Merlin hesitated. Then a smile pricked the corners of his lips. "No," he admitted.

A few more turns and they reached a heavy metal door. Behind it was a room that was, if possible, even more cell-like than the dormitory. It was a featureless concrete rectangle. Its only furnishings were a workbench overflowing with tools and scraps of electronics, and a huge control board attached to a monitor the size of the wall. The monitor was split into at least twelve video feeds. Harry squinted, and recognized one of the feeds as coming from the ceiling of the dorm. He could see Fred playing tug-of-war with his new spaniel puppy using a scrap of old cloth, and Abigail already starting to teach her shepherd to sit and stay. 

Merlin sat in front of the control board, relaxing into the chair as if he were a part of it. 

"What is this place?" said Harry. He put Mister Pickle down on the ground, and the puppy immediately tried to crawl under the desk and chew on the exposed wires. 

Merlin scooped Mister Pickle away from the wires and shooed him back toward Harry. "My workshop," he replied. 

"And that is?" Harry gestured to the array of video feeds. On one, four people in protective suits worked under a fume hood in a laboratory. Another showed a woman in coveralls working on the engine of a Lamborghini. Yet another was of a long table in a beautiful room that would not have looked out of place in the mansion above their heads – a man Harry didn’t recognize sat at the head of the table, writing in a ledger.

Merlin blanked the whole screen with the flick of a switch. "Classified, mostly," he said. 

"Can you really keep track of all those feeds at once?"

Merlin sighed. "I'm working on it. It's not as easy as it looks."

"It looks fucking impossible." 

"It's not," said Merlin. "It's what good field handlers do every day. You have to watch the glasses-cams of one or two agents, possibly more. Plus your map, plus your ambient cameras if you've got access. All while hacking the next objective and keeping track of the mission checkpoints. That's minimum. Bare minimum to complete the mission and keep everyone alive. That's what I need to learn to do." 

"You're already doing it," Harry reminded him. They'd run a couple more challenge courses since waking up in the woods that first night (blessedly, they'd been allowed to keep their sight since then) and Merlin had talked them through it each time. Sure, he could be a bit slow and sometimes he lost track of one candidate or another, but his judgement was impeccable. They were all learning to trust the voice in their ear like second nature. 

"Not well enough," said Merlin, leaning on the desk and grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes. "I can see why my predecessor avoided running mission control and stuck to the research and development side of the job." 

"Which you haven't been neglecting either," Harry noted, crossing the room to inspect the workbench more carefully. A pair of the glasses he knew so well were lying disassembled in a garden of tiny screws, wires, and tools. 

"Yes, I've been trying to redesign the glasses to be smaller at the temple. I'm sure you’ve noticed they impinge on peripheral vision. Not ideal for field work. But I've got to fit a transceiver, microphone, and speaker in there somewhere and everything is already as small as the technology will allow." 

"And what's this?" Just past the workbench, a small door stood ajar. At first Harry thought it was a closet, but now that he was closer he could see that it was a slightly bigger room than he'd expected. He peeked inside to find a little washroom with a foot locker pushed under the sink. Behind the door, there was a cot against the wall with the same scratchy blankets that Harry knew from the dorms. 

Merlin leaped across the room, shoved past Harry, and closed the door. 

"Are you _living_ here?" said Harry. 

Merlin planted his back against the door, crossed his arms, and said, "You're late for class." 

That was just enough to distract Harry from the revelation that he'd almost accidentally stumbled right into Merlin's bedroom, and make him look at the clock. "Shit!" he hissed, and he ran back toward the hallway. 

"See you later, yeah?" he called over his shoulder as he rounded the corner. 

He was answered by the skittering of claws on tile, a shrill bark, and Merlin's shouted, "Don't forget your stupid dog!"


	3. Closing the distance

Once Harry knew where in the building he could expect to find Merlin, he visited often in the following months. Technically the candidates were supposed to spend their down time either in the dorms or in one of a few approved training or study areas, but Harry quickly developed ways to slip off and spend time sitting on Merlin's desk, watching him tinker with some project at his workbench. 

"Well, Connery was clearly the best," he said, leaning back against the edge of the monitor. Merlin would scold him about touching the equipment, except Merlin was currently bent over those damn glasses, still trying to give them a narrower profile. 

Merlin didn't even look up from his work as he replied, "I quite liked George Lazenby." 

"I can never tell if you're being serious or if you're just trying to piss me off." 

"What? On Her Majesty's Secret Service was one of my favorite Bond films." 

"There is something seriously the matter with you... Ah, Mister Pickle! Here, boy. Lie down."

Amazingly, the little terrier stopped playing in the path of Merlin's rolling chair wheels and lay down at Harry's feet. Training him had been a more daunting task than Harry had realized. There had been plenty of days when he'd wished he'd picked the Lab or the Golden instead, especially when he saw Alan's dog heeling like a champion while Mister Pickle tore apart another of his socks. 

But in other ways he was glad he'd chosen the ridiculous little dog. When they went on long runs and night marches back when Harry was so out of shape that it was all he could do to keep the others within sight range, he'd had an excuse. He had to go slower. His dog had short legs. And as Mister Pickle grew until he could keep up with the bigger dogs, Harry's stamina improved until he was occasionally the one offering encouragement to his friends when they fell behind. 

They were all stronger, faster, and more disciplined then they had been at the beginning. They were running obstacle courses in full tactical gear that had once been daunting in nothing but their light PT uniforms. They were completing entire trial missions where before they were barely able to find their initial objectives without getting into screaming matches over the coms. Surprise practical challenges no longer fazed them – not even that time Merlin flooded the dorm while they slept. 

And Merlin was keeping pace with them. After a steep learning curve on working coms for multiple agents at once, he hit his stride. His orders were calm and clear, and he had a knack for timing his instructions so that his voice became a seamless part of his agents' thought process. He only became sharper as the pool of candidates he had to keep track of was whittled down from eight to seven, and then six. 

Harry was proud of them both. Of them all. 

But no amount of progress made Harry prouder than his hard-won success in training his little shit of a dog. Mister Pickle looked up at Harry, silently asking permission to get up and go find some more trouble to get into. "Stay," said Harry. Mister Pickle put his head on his front paws with a sigh. 

Merlin was still trying to defend On Her Majesty's Secret Service. "... and if you say anything against Diana Rigg then I'm afraid we can't be friends anymore."

He tried to suppress it, but Harry couldn't help but enjoy a childish thrill at being called Merlin's friend. "Diana Rigg is perfection," he admitted. "But Lazenby was not right for Bond. And if you don't get Bond right then you don't have a Bond movie. It's the most important part of the equation."

"I always felt that the Bond movies were only as good as their villain," said Merlin. 

"Well, yes," Harry allowed. "But no one wants to _be_ the villain. They want to be Bond. Everyone wants to be Bond."

Merlin finally laid his work aside and pivoted to look at Harry. "I never did."

"Who did you want to be, then?"

"Take a guess," said the quartermaster with a dry smile. 

Harry laughed as he caught on. "Sorry," he said. "Stupid question."

\-----

Of all the dogs living in the Kingsman recruit dormitory, Mister Pickle's favorite was Fred's Springer spaniel. Even though Fred and Harry were sitting on the bed nearest the door, the two dogs were off in the shower area, Mister Pickle standing on his back feet to box with his taller friend while yapping excitedly. Harry had proposed that they had taken to each other because they were the two with the stupidest names. Fred had maintained that Chewbacca was a perfectly fitting name for a dog.

Fred was trying to ignore the antics of their dogs in favor of his workbook. He chewed on his pen cap as he tried to decipher the homework they'd been left with after their last class. Eventually he spat the pen out and grumbled, "When are we going to need to use this shit in the real world, anyway?" 

Harry looked up from his own workbook with a raised eyebrow. The homework was on conversational French. "Literally if you _ever_ get assigned a mission in France," he answered. 

"Oh, yeah," said Fred glumly. "Can't we go back to the unit on how to recognize IEDs?" 

"Stop it, Fred. I know you're smarter than you let on. You can do this if you put your mind to it."

Fred gave a little grimace and snapped his workbook shut. "Yeah, but I don't want to. Why do we have to learn every little thing? It'd be better if they graduated all four of us – you, me, Gar, and Abby. We could be Galahad together, yeah? That way you could take care of all this language and undercover shit, and just call me in when you need a bomb defused." 

"If only," said Harry, smiling at Fred's little fantasy. "But I'm not always going to be there to translate for you, and you won't always be there to defuse the bomb for me. So we need to learn from each other. Now, do you need me to explain the subjunctive again?" He opened Fred's workbook for him and thumbed back to the page they'd been on. 

"Nah," said Fred, taking the book back and picking up his pen. "You don't need to sit here and hold my hand. I'll get it done."

Harry tossed his own workbook back onto his bed and got up. "Good, because I finished mine half an hour ago. I'll see you later?" 

"Yeah, we'll go down to the pub tonight."

He was always joking about the plans they could never make. Harry played along. "You know they don't let us out, right?"

Fred flashed him a goofy grin. "Oh, yeah."

Harry called to Mister Pickle as he left the dorm and took the path through the labyrinth of hallways to the shooting range. He would have rather done a hundred more French worksheets, but just like Fred he needed to work on his weaknesses as well as his strengths. 

When he entered the range, Garrett was already there. His Bloodhound puppy was lying in a pile of skin folds and long legs on a big dog bed by the door. Her name was Lady. When asked why he'd named her that, Garrett had replied proudly, "Because that's what she is." Mister Pickle hopped onto the bed beside Lady, but didn't bother trying to provoke her. Lady was as serious as her master. She would sometimes play and wrestle with the other dogs in the grass outside when given permission, but never on the gun range. 

Harry waited to approach until Garrett had emptied his magazine and pressed the button to bring his target forward. The paper human-shaped silhouette fluttered slightly as it flew up the range. When Harry looked over Garrett's shoulder, he saw the perfect cluster of holes dead-center in the chest. 

"I don't know why you even bother practicing," said Harry. "You're already the best shot out of any of us." 

Garrett put his earmuffs around his neck and smiled at Harry. "How do you think I got to be this good? By _not_ practicing? Grab your gun. Let's get started." 

Harry had become partial to the Tokarev pistol. It might have been his imagination, but he felt like he missed less with it. He retrieved it and his safety equipment from the gun locker, took the stall beside Garrett, and set up his own target. 

"Now, don't overthink it," Garrett told him. "It's not a kilometer-long snipe. A pistol is an extension of your hand, so just pick your target, feel the shot, and..."

Harry lifted the gun and emptied the magazine. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mister Pickle lift his head and quiver a little with the effort of holding back from barking a response. Lady didn't so much as blink. 

A press of a button brought his target forward. There was a spread of perforations across the chest and shoulders. Harry counted seven holes. His magazine held eight bullets. 

"You're getting better," said Garrett, but even he sounded frustrated. 

Harry lifted his empty gun and pressed the barrel to his target's forehead. "I'd hit every time if I could just get in close enough," he muttered. 

"If the other man can hit you from across the room and you can only hit him from point-blank range, I know who my money is on," Garrett replied. "Remember the team event last week?"

"Don't remind me." Last week they had been broken into groups of three and set loose on the Kingsman grounds with tactical objectives and paintball guns. Harry's team had lost miserably. Mostly because Harry had spent most of the endgame dodging from tree to tree, trying to close the distance between himself and Fred so that he could get a close-range kill shot, and getting peppered with paint in the meantime. 

Garrett set both of them up with new targets. "If you prefer close range combat, go talk to Abigail."

"I do," Harry admitted. He re-loaded his Tokarev. "But I'll finish practicing here first, if you don't mind." 

An hour later, his hands numb from recoil and his eyes swimming with visions of little holes in paper silhouettes, he left the range with Mister Pickle on his heels. He almost took a turn to go visit Merlin, but stopped himself with a pang of self-consciousness. If he wasn't careful, someone would catch wise to his little crush. His friends, or Arthur. Or Merlin himself, if he hadn't already. Or worse, Regina. 

He turned the other way, back toward the dorms. 

When he approached the door, Abigail met him coming the other direction. She was sopping wet with rain water from hair to boots. Her German shepherd, Jack, plodded after her with a trail of water dripping from his underbelly and tail. Mister Pickle ran to greet him. They stopped just short of bowling each other over, and carefully touched noses. Those two had an odd and quiet friendship. They rarely played, but they enjoyed each other's company in a way that sometimes made Harry think they were communicating telepathically. 

Abigail caught Harry's eye and waved as she peeled her siren suit off her shoulders and tied the arms around her waist. "Don't go out there," she advised. "It's coming down in buckets." 

"Yes, so of course you went for a jog," Harry teased.

"Just wanted to be alone for a while." Abigail picked at the siren suit where it was sticking wetly to her legs. Finally she gave up on it, stripping out of it and throwing it in a soggy heap just outside the dormitory door. Under it she was wearing her PT shorts and a sports bra. "Fancy a sparring match?" 

"I was waiting for you to ask." 

The gym was the only room in the Kingsman underground base that didn't make Harry think of a concrete coffin. It was well-lit and open, with one wall taken up by panels of mirrors. The other walls were the same grey concrete as everywhere else, but the floor was hardwood. There was a set of free weights against the mirrors, and across the room a hanging punching bag. A set of shelves held blunted specimens of every melee weapon known to man – everything from staves to broadswords, and even replicas of firearms so the candidates could practice disarming each other. Against the back wall was a padded, raised sparring ring. Harry may have lived in the dorms and cherished his visits to Merlin's workshop, but the gym was his favorite room in the complex. 

For a man who had never been very physical, Harry had surprised himself early on in his training with an unexpected aptitude for close range combat. Where his endurance had needed to be built up over time and his marksmanship was still a work in progress, when it came to melee fighting Harry started with good kinetic intuition and enjoyed honing it into a proper style. Even now he was more comfortable using the model pistols as bludgeons than he was shooting a real one on the range. 

Abigail had taken it upon herself to help Harry improve his skills, and no one was happier than she when he turned out to be almost a match for her. No one else could give her a good fight at close range. Not Alan. Not even Garrett. Despite her small frame, Abigail Winters fought like a goddamn wolverine. 

They suited up – head gear, mouth guards, shin guards, and gloves – and stepped into the ring. "Ready?" said Abigail. 

Harry raised his hands to guard position before replying, "Ready." Sure enough, before the word was even fully out of his mouth, he was blocking a vicious roundhouse kick that left his forearm numb. He retaliated with a jab at Abigail's throat. It didn't have a chance to connect before she took advantage of the opening to drive a knee into his flank. He dropped to the mat, sucking air, but that didn't stop him from diving at her legs to take her down with him. Then it was a matter of grappling for dominance until Abigail finally managed to pin Harry with his face against the mat and his arm twisted behind his back. 

He tapped out. They stood up. "Ready?" said Abigail. And they went again. 

Harry lost count, but he estimated that he pinned her once for every five times she pinned him. She wasn't as strong as him, and she was only a little bit faster, but no matter what he did Harry could not match her ferocity. She beat him down through sheer force of will. He tried to meet her attacks with the same aggression, but she bowled him over like the incoming tide overtaking an estuary. 

She dropped her guard as she charged at him. He launched himself to meet her, and his right hook connected with her temple hard enough to stagger her. Before, he might have paused to make sure she was alright. Now he knew better. He pressed the attack until she was on the ground, flat on her back. But when he went in for the finishing blow, she met him with her knee in his gut. With a kick of her hip, she sent him flipping over her to land hard on his tailbone. 

Abigail hopped up and danced there on the mat, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Ready?" she said. 

Harry gave an incoherent groan from the floor. "Enough, Abby, give me a second..." he gasped.

"Shit, did I hurt you?" In an instant, she was kneeling beside him and helping him into a sitting position. As soon as it became clear that he was winded, but not wounded, she grinned and added, "If you'd thrown me like you meant it instead of pretending you were throwing a fucking wedding bouquet, I might not have recovered fast enough to flip you." 

"Maybe next time," Harry grunted as he stood. His ass was so bruised that he knew he would remember this fight every time he sat down for the next couple of days. 

They cooled off by taking out the fake handguns and practicing their disarm technique. Eventually Abigail dropped her gun by the side of the ring and declared her dire need of a hot shower. Jack followed her out, and Harry was left alone with no one but Mister Pickle to look up at him expectantly from the corner near the weights. 

Then, like every time after a sparring session with Abigail, Harry began running through the fight step by step. He swayed his hands and shuffled his feet, trying to remember the exact order of attacks. If he had committed to that kick instead of backpedaling to get away from her punch, could he have overwhelmed her? If he had rushed her when she was off balance from that jump kick, would he have knocked her to the ground? If he had turned that block into another punch, could he have put her on the defensive?

"You need to start protecting yourself." 

Harry was so startled that he tripped on his own foot and almost fell. He whirled to see Merlin standing in the open doorway, leaning on the wall. He wore a black raincoat over a shirt and tie. One hand held an umbrella so that it rested against his shoulder. 

"What?" said Harry. 

Merlin carefully set the umbrella down in the rack with the weapons, next to the spear and the quarterstaff. He shrugged out of his coat as he made his way across the room to the ring. "You need to stop worrying about hitting your opponent and start worrying about making sure your opponent doesn't hit you," he said, loosening his tie. "That's why Abigail keeps beating you. Anyone can throw a punch. But that punch will be more effective if you can learn to watch and wait." 

Harry's eyes flicked to the ceiling and picked out the telltale glints of light off the lenses embedded there. He'd known that there were cameras in the gym. For some reason it had never occurred to him that Merlin would be watching. "Abigail says I'll lose my momentum if I stop being aggressive," he protested. 

"There is a time to be aggressive," said Merlin. He stepped into the ring, dropping his tie on the hardwood floor behind him and undoing the top two buttons of his shirt. "But if you never stop attacking, you'll miss when that time is." 

"If I never stop attacking," said Harry stubbornly, "at least one of my attacks will get through." 

Merlin spread his hands a little, inviting. "Then hit me," he said. 

The words were barely out of his mouth before Harry launched himself, fists up, ready since the moment Merlin had taken off his tie. He swung. 

And stumbled into empty air as Merlin sidestepped him neatly. Harry grinned. The man was full of surprises. He didn't often join the candidates in the field, but when he did he always kept pace. He was stronger than he looked – every ounce of his skinny frame was wiry muscle. And when he went running with them he was freakishly fast and stunningly tireless, bounding ahead of the group on his long legs like a demented jackrabbit. Harry had never seen Merlin fight, but he might have guessed that he'd be good at it. 

He didn't let the miss throw him off balance. He whirled and attacked, putting Merlin back on his heels, making him dodge again and again. Merlin weaved around the punches as if he were made of water. 

Finally, Harry managed to snag the front of Merlin's shirt. He held him still with one hand while with the other he wound up for a punch. 

That punch never flew. In that instant, when both of Harry's hands were occupied with something other than keeping up his guard, Merlin spun and slammed an elbow into the side of Harry's head. Even through his pads, the blow was hard enough to make Harry's vision swim. He dropped to one knee. The coppery taste of blood blossomed in his mouth, and he realized that he'd bitten his tongue. 

Merlin offered Harry his hand and pulled him back to his feet. Harry swallowed the blood in his mouth and sucked on his tongue, unwilling to show Merlin that he was bleeding. 

"Care to go again?" said Merlin.

This time, Harry was more careful. He swung, watched the way Merlin evaded him, and then drew back to reassess. He let Merlin come at him, and blocked and dodged instead of answering right away with an attack of his own. They circled each other. Anticipated the next move, and the move after that, and the move after that. 

Fighting with Abigail was the most visceral thing Harry knew how to do. But fighting with Merlin was intensely cerebral and, somehow, more natural. There was a language to be learned in his movements, in his timing, in his eyes. Abigail was a primal scream. Merlin was a conversation. 

Harry feigned an attack and dropped his hands by centimeters, goading Merlin into a parry. When he took the bait and lashed out with a jab to Harry's face, Harry turned the tables on him by dodging and catching him by the wrist. This time he didn't give Merlin space to get an elbow in. They grappled, clothing and skin slipping in and out of grips, until Merlin hooked a foot behind Harry's knee and shoved him down to the mat. But Harry was ready. He hung on and brought Merlin down with him, twisting in the air and landing on top. 

He had Merlin on his back, pinning him by both wrists, straddling his midsection. For one instant. Then he felt the bounding pulse beneath his fingers, the narrow hips between his knees. He saw the hot flush of combat on Merlin's cheeks. 

And he remembered the cameras on the ceiling above them. 

He broke off the attack, leaping off of Merlin and back to his feet like he'd been stung. His pads hit the ring one by one as he pulled them off. He needed air. He needed to catch his breath. He needed to meet Merlin's eyes instead of staring awkwardly at the way he was lying there, propped up on his elbows, his legs slightly spread, his expression unreadable. 

Merlin sounded almost disappointed when he said, "Now, that was the perfect time to be aggressive."

Harry couldn't tell if he was talking about the fight or about something else entirely. "Maybe next time," he mumbled. 

Merlin didn't press the issue. He did up the buttons on his shirt, and on his way back to the door he retrieved his tie from the floor and his coat from the rack where he'd dropped them. He put himself back together as he walked. Soon there was no evidence he'd ever even broken a sweat. 

He touched the handle of his umbrella as he passed it, but didn't pick it back up. "This is for you," he said over his shoulder. "It's just a prototype, but I think you'll like it." 

"What does it do?" said Harry. He'd been at Kingsman long enough to understand that it was surely more than just an umbrella. 

Merlin flashed him a smile before closing the door behind him on his way out. "It should help you close the distance."


	4. A Kingsman needs to solve problems under pressure

There was an armory on the Kingsman base even bigger and more extensive than the one in fitting room three at the tailor shop. The recruits were given the tour back in their first week and since then they were allowed to borrow any of the weapons therein for training purposes. It was difficult not to abuse this privilege. There were firearms of every make and model imaginable. There were shoes that hid blades, rings that hid tasers, watches that hid dart guns – it seemed that every piece of a gentleman's ensemble could be made deadly. Even the row of lighters on one shelf proved to be fragmentation grenades (Fred had shoveled a handful of them into his pockets as soon as he found out). 

There were handguns and pepper spray and garrotes and blades and incendiary devices. If it could fit on someone's person while they were wearing a suit, and could kill a man, then it was in the Kingsman armory. 

But not Harry's umbrella. That was one of a kind. 

The other recruits wasted no time in helping Harry break it in. At first they just propped it up at the end of the gun range and took turns firing rounds at it. But once they'd satisfied themselves that it really was bulletproof, things escalated quickly. Soon Harry was kneeling behind it while Garrett strafed him with a Beretta. The bullets' impact felt like nothing more than some particularly nasty hail. Harry popped up from behind his shield with a giddy grin on his face, and the others all begged him for a turn. 

The umbrella held up perfectly against all manner of small arms fire and even an indirect hit from one of Fred's lighter-grenades. Their experimentation continued until Fred announced that he was going back to the armory for the anti-tank rifle. At which point the overhead PA system crackled to life and Merlin's long-suffering voice put an end to their fun by scolding, "Harry, I told you! No armor-piercing rounds!"

Afterwards, when Garrett and Fred had gone back to the dorms, Abigail sidled up to Harry and asked, "So, is Merlin going to make one of those for each of us? Or are custom gadgets a boyfriends-only perk?"

She then left Harry to stammer helplessly for several seconds while she bit her lip to keep from laughing at him. She never brought it up, so Harry had almost allowed himself to forget that she'd noticed his moonstruck staring since day one. 

"Keep it together, Hart," she said, slapping him on the shoulder. "I won't tell anyone." 

When they weren’t testing its limits, the umbrella leaned against the wall next to Harry's bed. Mister Pickle slept in the crook of his bent knees. When the lights dimmed at night, Harry could pick out each of his comrades in the dark by their silhouettes, their mannerisms, the little noises they made when getting ready to sleep. This place wasn't home, but for the first time in all these weeks he was starting to feel safe here. 

He fell asleep that night in his bed, in silence. He woke up slouched over on a steel bench, surrounded by noise. His umbrella was missing. So was Mister Pickle. He wasn't in the dorm. "Oh Christ, not again," he muttered as he worked out the kink in his neck. 

All around him, the other five candidates were stirring. They were propped up on two parallel benches, each of them wearing a black flight suit and helmet. A quick pat-down confirmed to Harry that he was dressed the same. The room they were in was cramped and plain. Its only features besides its occupants were a rack of hooks to one side that held some kind of climbing gear or possibly backpacks, a set of low storage lockers, and a door. Most worrying, though, was the fact that the walls and floor were bowing and vibrating, producing a low rumble that almost drowned out the sound of rushing wind from outside. 

"We're in an airplane," Abigail announced as she stretched herself awake. Harry wouldn't have heard her over the noise of flight, but her voice came in loud and clear through the speakers inside his helmet. "No, wait... I don't hear engines." 

Harry wobbled to his feet and crossed the room to the opening at the far end. There was a cockpit with some rudimentary controls – dials and gauges, nothing electronic, and what looked like an analog steering column. There was no one at the controls. Harry peered through the windscreen, squinting at the rising sun peeking up above the horizon, and craned to look back along the plane's sides as far as he could see. There was no prop, no wing-mounted engines, no propulsion system that he could identify. He put his hand on the wall to steady himself and did a double-take. "It's made of wood!" he told Garrett, who had followed him into the cockpit. 

"You are in a glider," Merlin's voice rasped over the com. With it came a soft clatter of equipment being hastily organized and a soft puff of feedback as Merlin moved his microphone around. "You've been towed to three thousand meters above the Kingsman grounds. Your task is to parachute out of the glider and land in the Kingsman logo drawn on the front lawn of the mansion." 

"Are you alright?" said Harry. The only other time he'd heard Merlin's voice sound that rough was when he'd arrived at the workshop unannounced to find Merlin passed out at his workbench. Merlin rarely slept, but that was the day Harry learned that he didn't appreciate being woken up no matter how uncomfortable he looked with his face mashed into a pile of electronics. 

Merlin cleared his throat and snapped, "I'm fine. Get into your harness, Harry. This is an elimination test. If you don't land in the K, you'll be sent home." 

That set everyone to scrambling. Garrett and Harry shuffled out of the cockpit and back into the hold. The others leaped off the benches and went for the equipment rack. They all tried to grab a harness off the peg at the same time, which led to the six of them pulling at a tangled mess of straps. 

"Wait, wait!" said Merlin. "You need to slow down. You're supposed to work together on this..."

"He's right," said Garrett, grabbing the mass of harnesses and holding it out of reach while he waited for everyone to calm down. "We're still at altitude. We have time." He began to untangle the straps and hand out harnesses one by one. 

Alan had already grabbed a parachute in the initial scuffle. The other boy, Robert, snatched the first one that Garrett untangled. In seconds, they were strapped in and opening the exterior door. The wind roared in the cabin and set their flight suits fluttering against their bodies. 

"Stop! We need to stay together!" Garrett shouted, but the two boys were already out the door and falling to earth. 

Fred flapped his hands, urging Garrett to hurry. "We've still got time! Let's get strapped in and go!" 

"Wait..." said Abigail as Garrett handed her a harness. "What the hell?" 

She held up the bundle of straps in her hand. There was no parachute attached. 

"Fuck!" said Garrett. He'd finally separated all the harnesses. He laid them on the floor of the glider so they could all see. Of the four remaining, only one had a parachute on it. The others were just crisscrossing straps with clips at the shoulders and hips. "Merlin, what is this? There's only one chute left. The other three are tandem harnesses!" 

There was a terrifyingly long silence on the com. When Merlin's voice came through again, it sounded smaller than Harry would have thought possible. "What?" he said. 

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, 'WHAT?'" Fred shrieked. 

"I... I don't..." Merlin stammered. He hadn't sounded so lost since their first assignment. "Check the lockers!"

Abigail was already rooting through them. "There's nothing in here!" she said. Her voice kept its normal volume and pitch, but Harry could hear her heavy, rapid breathing. "No more parachutes. That really is the last one!" 

"Okay," said Merlin. "I see. Three of you were supposed to jump with the parachutes, and the other three were supposed to ride tandem."

"Well, it's a little late for that," said Garrett, his voice clipped and low. 

"Give me a second..." The sound of rustling papers and keyboard tapping came through from Merlin's end, then, "It's okay. The... there's plenty of margin for safety on the weight ranges for this gear. The single chute should support all four of you as long as you open with enough altitude." 

" _'SHOULD?'_ " Fred screamed. 

Garrett grabbed Fred by the shoulders. "Fred, get a grip! Merlin, with all due respect, I'm not jumping triple tandem. That's fucking insane."

"Well, if you have a better idea, I'm all ears!" 

Harry had been listening quietly, trying to control the fear eating away at his chest. But the shrill note that was creeping into Merlin's voice was threatening to take away the last of his calm. He broke his silence to demand, "Hold on. Merlin, are you panicking?"

"NO!" Merlin snapped, his voice so high pitched that it was just this side of cracking.

"You are! That is panic in your voice. You are panicking." Harry found that his fear was quickly being replaced by anger. 

Merlin replied, "Well, I feel that this is an appropriate time for panic!"

"No. No!" Harry shouted, "This is an appropriate time for _me_ to panic. You are not allowed. I'm going to panic right now and I need at least one of us to not be panicking!" 

"WELL YOU KNOW WHAT, HARRY..." Then Merlin stopped. There was a long pause and a deep breath. When Merlin spoke again, his voice was once again the anchor of calm that Harry had become accustomed to. That he needed. "You're right. You're right. It's okay. I'm going to get you all down safely."

"How?!" said Fred, but even he sounded more collected than before. 

"You're going to need to land the glider." 

They all took a second or two to process this information. Then Abigail piped up with an audible wince, "The glider that's made of wood?" 

"Yes." 

"What is this thing, anyway?" Garrett ventured, rapping his knuckles on the fuselage. 

More shuffling paper sounds came over the com. Then, "Oh. Um, it's a replica of a World War Two Hotspur." 

"A World War Two glider..." said Abigail with trepidation. "Weren't those basically deathtraps held together by plywood and prayers?" 

"You can land it," said Merlin, sounding so confident that Harry found himself believing it. "I'll talk you through it. Someone get on the controls." 

Garrett leaped into the cockpit. Abigail followed close behind. 

Harry scooped the one remaining parachute off the ground and shoved it into Fred's arms. "Strap in and jump," he ordered. "No reason for all four of us to risk our skins." 

With a shaky smile, Fred threw the parachute aside. "Fuck off," he said. And he crossed the cabin to close the exterior door with a slam. 

They joined Garrett and Abigail in the cockpit, squashing in together with knees and elbows everywhere. Garrett disengaged the autopilot – which was nothing more than a steel bar holding the steering column in place – and the whole glider gave a lurch. Harry's stomach leaped into his chest as the horizon tilted and swayed. The countryside looked like a patchwork quilt from up there. He couldn't even pick out the Kingsman grounds from the rolling landscape around them. 

"Steady," said Merlin. "Level it out. Good. Don't pull up too much or you'll stall. Now bear right. There's a nice big wheat field that's just within gliding range. It should give you a flat, soft landing."

"Roger," said Garrett tersely as he steered. 

"Wait," said Harry. "Forget the wheat field. Merlin, point us toward the mansion. We need to land it in the K." 

The other three turned to gape at him. "Are you fucking mental?" Fred protested.

"If we don't land in the K, we go home," said Abigail, but she didn't sound happy about it. 

"Is that even possible?" Garrett demanded. 

Feedback squealed over the com as Merlin rearranged his desk again, and then Harry could hear the scratch of pen on paper. "Hang on. Calculating a trajectory for you. Give me forty-five seconds." 

Harry glanced at the clock on the glider's instrument panel. He didn't think he had ever seen a second hand tick slower. The only sounds were the rush of wind, the breath of his friends coming through the com, and the rumble of the wooden fuselage as it bowed and rippled, reminding Harry of a piece of laminated paper being shaken. Out the windscreen, the features of the landscape were looking much nearer than they had before. 

After the longest forty-two seconds of their lives, Merlin said, "Swing wide to the south and come back around. You need to drop another eight hundred meters, then come at the grounds from east to west. That's the only way you'll have enough clear space between the tree line and the target to make your descent. You'll have to come in steep, though. It won't be a gentle landing." 

"I don't think any of us were expecting one of those," said Abigail, but she sounded less terse and more... Harry hesitated to call her voice _excited_ , but he also couldn't think of a better word for it. 

None of them spoke as they made their steady descent. Garrett steered them in an arc over the fields and ponds with Merlin verbally nudging him left or right to keep him on track. Harry squinted, trying to decide if the trees below them were getting closer. Then, all at once, they were definitely getting closer, in fact they were alarmingly close, and getting closer by the second, leaves and branches zipping by and still no sign of a safe landing. 

Then, over the tops of the trees, Harry finally spotted the Kingsman mansion. 

"You're coming up on it now," said Merlin, sounding only a tad breathless. "Once you're past the trees, keep the path on your left and aim for the fountain with the statue. Once you're past it, you're in the main courtyard. You'll overshoot if you haven't touched down by then. Good luck." 

After that, everything happened all at once. 

The trees disappeared from under them in a flash, and then it was the ground racing up at them instead of the leaves. Garrett muttered a staccato stream of uncharacteristic curse words as he white-knuckled the steering column, keeping to the right of the path just as Merlin had said. Abigail's fingers were digging into Harry's arm hard enough to bruise him through his flight suit, and Fred was braced against the dash with his eyes screwed shut. 

The mansion was flying into view. The courtyard was just ahead, and Harry could just make out the white of the chalk logo on the grass. He tensed as he anticipated the impact. 

"The statue, the statue!" Abigail screamed. 

Garrett had done too good a job aiming for it. As they hit the ground with a jolt that knocked the wind from all four of them, the left wing of the glider clipped the statue at the center of the fountain. It was ripped off with a screech of shearing wood. Something else was screeching too – somebody over the com, maybe Abigail, maybe Fred, maybe all four of them. The glider spun and skidded. The fuselage crunched and splintered around them. Harry's helmet slammed against the cockpit wall and stayed slammed, pinned there by the force of the spin. 

It seemed like an age, but finally the spinning slowed and the glider skidded to a stop, braked by the furrow of grass and turf it had kicked up around it. The fuselage leaned, shuddered, and then settled like a house after an earthquake, barely holding its shape. The tail had been ripped off. The back half of the cabin was a gaping hole. The left wing was strewn across the lawn in a state that brought matchsticks to mind. Harry shifted his weight, and the floor under his feet buckled. The whole thing was one good puff of wind from falling apart completely. But they were safe on the ground. 

"Report," Merlin ordered. 

He was answered only by groaning as the four unfolded themselves from the heaps they'd been thrown into by the crash. 

"Report!" he said again. "Is everyone alright? _...Harry?!_ " 

"The rest of us are fine too, thanks for asking!" Abigail snapped. But then she collapsed against Harry, laughing. 

Fred flapped a hand weakly toward the windscreen. He was looking a shade greener than usual, but he looked less perturbed by the crash than by what he was seeing outside. "Uh, mates?" 

Harry followed his gaze. Up on the staircase at the entryway of the mansion stood a man. He might have been tall once, but his back was stooped with age. His hair was stark white, his eyes creased, his mouth a thin and lipless line. He was dressed in the most immaculate navy suit, and he wore the now-familiar Kingsman glasses. He looked down, stony-faced, at the carnage of wrecked lawn and crashed plane below him. 

"Is that Arthur?" Harry wondered aloud. 

"Never mind him," Merlin sighed. "You missed the bloody K." 

Harry looked down and swore. Ten meters or so off to the right of the cockpit, the chalk outline sat undisturbed. 

"I'm sorry," said Garrett, grimacing as he pulled his helmet off. "If I'd given that damned fountain a wider berth..."

"We gave it a shot, at least," said Abigail, reaching up to put a hand on his shoulder. 

"Fuck," was all Fred said, and then he stood up and vomited onto the instrument panel. 

Harry patted Fred's back until he stopped retching. Then he said, "Hold on, everyone. The glider may be on the ground, but we're not yet. Follow me." 

He picked his way through the cockpit door and into the cabin, testing each section of floor before trusting his weight to it. There were great cracks and fissures in the wood, and the boards sagged with the weight of his footsteps. The exterior door – the one he would have jumped through if they'd all had parachutes – was ripped clean off its mooring, leaving an impressive gap in the side of the plane. Just outside and forward of the gap was the remaining wing. 

Without touching the grass outside, Harry pulled himself up by the doorframe and clambered out onto the wing. He walked the length of it. With each step he expected it to buckle and fall, but it held. When he reached the end, he sat down with his feet dangling, slid off the edge, and landed with both feet just inside the chalk circle. One by one, his friends did the same. 

They stood together in the K, arms around each other's shoulders, still panting from the adrenaline rush. They looked up expectantly at the stern-faced white-haired man above them. Arthur looked down at them. 

And all at once, his unreadable demeanor broke into a crooked smile. 

"You'd best get changed. You have class in an hour," he told them, his eyes twinkling. 

As they raced up the stairs and past him toward the entrance to the mansion, Arthur added, "Oh, and bloody good show!"


	5. Trust and loyalty

Robert, the sixth remaining Kingsman recruit, didn't come to lessons for the rest of the day after the parachute exercise. That was the first that Harry and the others learned of him being blown off course and landing on the back lawn of the mansion instead of in the K. They didn't see him again. By the time they returned to the dorms at the end of the day, he had already packed and gone. 

And then there were five of them. 

Over the next few weeks, Harry and his friends excelled. The narrowed playing field meant more individual attention from their instructors, and smaller teams meant they could work with needle precision on assignments. 

Alan, all his friends having been eliminated, retreated from the rest of the group. He made no effort to become friendly with Harry or the others. He seemed to prefer the company of his dog to any of them. Whenever anyone tried to talk to him, he was sour and sullen. His attitude was no better during missions. He would even talk back and mutter insubordinately at Merlin, whose leadership he chafed under. At mealtimes he sat alone. At night he went to sleep without speaking to anyone. 

The other four were more than happy to let him have his solitude. They each had their own ways of distracting themselves from the rigors of their training. Garrett wrote letters to his family every week. Fred devoured comic books under the covers at night. Abigail went on her long jogs with only her dog for company. And Harry, of course, had Merlin.

He had long since stopped knocking when he visited the workshop. He pushed the door open and held it so Mister Pickle could follow him inside. 

Merlin greeted him without looking up from the mission notes he was reviewing. "What brings you here, Harry?" 

Harry laid his umbrella across Merlin's lap. "It's due for a tune-up," he said. When he'd received it, Merlin had warned him that the bulletproof cover would need to be replaced at least once a month. With the amount of use Harry had been getting out of it, he figured he had best not push his luck. 

"I can't believe you remembered," said Merlin with a crooked smile. He put down his notes and rolled his chair over to his workbench. "I didn't think you were paying attention."

"To you, always." Harry joined him by sitting on the ground with his back against one of the table legs. He'd started using the floor as a seat instead of Merlin's desk as a subtle protest against the fact that Merlin had yet to add a second chair. But now that he'd gotten used to it, he wasn't sure if he'd use a chair even if one were provided for him. The low vantage point gave him a nice view of the serious frown that Merlin wore while he was working. And sometimes, when Merlin was very wrapped up in his tinkering, he'd relax his knee so that it rested against the back of Harry's shoulder. 

As Merlin went to work dismantling the umbrella, Harry played with Mister Pickle and occasionally prodded his friend with attempts at conversation. "It needs a weapon," he said. 

"What does?" Merlin muttered. 

"The umbrella," said Harry. "I can't just hide behind it all day. It needs some offensive capabilities."

"You have your sidearm for that."

"Please?" Harry batted his eyes as winningly as possible, just in case Merlin happened to glance at him. 

Merlin's eyes didn't stray from the umbrella in his hands. "You're just trying to create more work for me," he said. 

"It would be a good excuse to spend more time here with you."

"You don't need an excuse to see me," said Merlin, and Harry sat in silence for a moment as he tried to decide if he'd meant it as a reproach or as an invitation. 

He changed the subject. "Arthur is meeting with us for individual evaluations tomorrow." 

Harry didn't see it, but he felt Merlin's almost-imperceptible flinch. The sounds of his tools clicking stopped. When Harry looked up, Merlin was watching Mister Pickle chase Harry's hands back and forth across the floor. 

"Did he say what for?" said Merlin carefully. 

"No. We supposed he wanted to meet the final five candidates in person." 

"I'm sure he does. Are you meant to bring anything with you?"

"Just our dogs." 

As they spoke, Harry's hands stilled and rested in his lap. Mister Pickle nudged him twice, trying to get him to resume their game. When Harry didn't respond, the little dog flopped down by his side, laying a fuzzy chin on his thigh and sighing heavily as he gazed at him with big, black eyes. 

"He loves you," said Merlin quietly. He'd abandoned his work completely, and was sitting with his elbows resting on his knees. 

Harry wasn't at all sure how much he should read into that, so he just grinned and replied, "I know."

Merlin pushed away from the workbench and rolled his chair around so that he was facing Harry. "I need to tell you something, and I need you to listen." 

"Go on, then." 

"Being an agent is all about trust," said Merlin. "You're blind out there in the field. You need to trust that your superiors have the information to guide you, to..."

"Unless your handler doesn't know how many parachutes are on the plane," said Harry with a smirk. He had gotten a lot of mileage out of teasing Merlin about that training exercise with the glider. Merlin maintained that it had been a test of how the candidates would react when given an incorrect briefing, and that he had been in control the entire time. But Harry was certain that Arthur had gotten Merlin out of bed with no warning and made him run that mission unaware. 

So far Merlin had been stoic about Harry's jibes, but now he snapped, "Would you shut it? This is important, Harry!" 

Harry shut his mouth. 

"Yes," said Merlin. "Sometimes you will learn things in the field that your handler doesn't already know. But you pass that information along, and so do all the other agents on the ground. Your handler synthesizes all of those reports so that they can see the big picture. It's impractical and unsafe to pass that big picture back to every field agent. So when you are on assignment, you are often operating with incomplete information. Depending on the assignment, even false information."

Harry nodded, his fingers fidgeting gently with Mister Pickle's scruff. He suddenly wished he weren't sitting with legs crossed on the floor like a child, but it seemed discourteous to stand when Merlin was in the middle of lecturing him. 

"You need to understand that when you are given an order, even if it is against your very nature, it does make sense within a bigger picture that you may not be able to see. And you need to follow it. Even if the immediate consequences as you perceive them are unacceptable. You need to trust that, even if it's not the action you would have chosen, it's the correct one. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I think so." 

"That's all Arthur wants to know about you. That you can trust him enough to follow an order like that."

Harry had the distinct feeling that Merlin wasn't supposed to be telling him this. "How can I?" he said, leaning forward. "I don't even know the man."

"Then trust _me_ ," said Merlin. "Arthur may be giving the orders, but I'll be the one whispering them in your ear. Trust that I will never tell you to do something that would damage your soul." 

"My soul?" said Harry with a weak chuckle. 

Merlin didn't so much as blink. "Yes."

"Alright then." 

In a flash, Merlin slid his chair back to his workbench and resumed fiddling with the umbrella as if nothing had happened. 

After several seconds, Harry broke the silence by saying, "So, I was thinking maybe a miniature rocket-propelled grenade launcher in the handle..." 

"No, Harry," said Merlin. But this time he was smiling.

\-----

Arthur was not exactly what Harry had been expecting. 

After Regina's ranting about the stodgy old master of the Kingsman organization who had been stubbornly standing in her way of promotion for the last couple of decades, Harry had begun to think of Arthur as some sort of despotic general. He was not prepared for the creased-faced little old man who invited him into his study and offered him a seat next to the fireplace. This Arthur reminded him less of a goblin and more of a slightly wizened Father Christmas. 

The room was part of the above-ground mansion. Unlike the hallways below with their concrete and glass aesthetic, it was luscious in a traditional, almost old-fashioned way. The architecture, the fireplace, the chairs, the light fixtures – everything screamed old money. Even the rug beneath Harry's boots looked like it was probably worth more than the average citizen made in a year. 

Covering most of the rug was a clear plastic tarp. As Mister Pickle skipped through the door after him, Harry motioned for him to sit in the middle of the plastic. The rug might have been worth more than Harry thought, if Arthur was so concerned about the dogs shedding on it. 

"An interesting choice," said Arthur, gesturing at Mister Pickle.

Harry replied, "I like to defy expectations." 

That made Arthur laugh. "As do I, when I can! I'm sure Percival has told you all manner of things about me. What is your impression?" 

"I think..." said Harry, choosing his words carefully, "that if you proposed Abigail, then you can't be too bad." 

"You two are quite fond of each other," said Arthur knowingly. 

"Yes," said Harry, not bothering to correct the implication. If Regina knew that Arthur suspected Harry of a crush on a woman, she might never stop laughing. 

"She's quite remarkable. The most talented and accomplished young woman of her age I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. It was not a difficult decision to make her my proposal for Galahad."

Harry had to agree. He had improved by leaps and bounds to close the gap between himself and the other candidates, but Abigail had started out at the head of the pack and she had stayed there. Her only real competition was Garrett. Harry was usually left scrambling for third place, working like mad to overtake them. "You made a good choice."

"I think so."

Harry hesitated for a moment before inquiring, "And Merlin?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "What about Merlin?"

"You proposed him, too. And he's also quite remarkable."

"In a different way," said Arthur, wagging a finger at Harry for emphasis. "He has skill, to be sure, but it's raw and unrefined. His true asset is his hunger – his ability and willingness to cultivate those skills that he lacks. I didn't expect him to be top of his class when he arrived, like Abigail was. I chose him for his potential." He paused, then smiled and added, "I imagine it's much the same thing Percival sees in you."

"Thank you, sir," Harry mumbled. He wasn't sure if that was supposed to be a compliment, but he was being compared to Merlin so he decided to take it as one. 

Arthur leaned over the far side of his chair and produced a handgun. Harry recognized the same Tokarev that he'd been using on the range, right down to the nick on the sight. It was his gun, straight out of his locker. His fingers tightened on the chair's armrests. 

"You've become quite good with this," said Arthur, offering Harry the gun handle-first. 

There was nothing Harry wanted less than to take that gun. But the way Arthur was thrusting it at him left no room for protest. He reached out and closed his hand around the grip, keeping the barrel pointed at the floor. 

As soon as the gun was in his hand, Arthur said nonchalantly, "Shoot the dog." 

In that instant, it took everything Harry had not to drop the gun like it was made of spiders. It suddenly all made sense. Making them pick the dogs. Making them raise them. Making it a rule that the dogs followed them everywhere, ensuring that they bonded. Even the plastic covering the rug made a sickening kind of sense. Harry wished he had taught Mister Pickle to take a shit on command so he could mess up that fucking rug before taking his dog and walking out. 

But he stopped. Despite the bile that rose in the back of his throat, he imagined that instead of Arthur sitting across from him it was Merlin speaking the command into his glasses. _Shoot the dog._

He raised the pistol. Mister Pickle pricked his ears up. He knew what the gun was, that it made a loud noise and that he liked that. He didn't know what it meant that the barrel was pointed at his face. 

_Shoot the dog._ Harry tried to remember what Merlin had said. He tried to remember that he wasn't seeing the big picture. That the information that he had was incomplete. That the information that he had was false. But the pistol surely felt real and heavy in his hand. As real as all the times he fired it on the range, the neat holes appearing in his paper target with each squeeze of the trigger. 

Merlin had known about this test. He'd known what Arthur was going to ask Harry to do. And he'd asked Harry to trust him. So Harry looked into those big, black, guileless eyes and hoped to God that Merlin understood what it would do to him to see his dog splattered across the plastic covering that goddamn rug. 

_Shoot the dog._ And this time he swore he could hear the Scottish brogue tickling his ear. 

He pulled the trigger. 

The sharp crack of the gun was answered immediately by an explosion of shrill barking. Mister Pickle leaped to his feet, unable to maintain his composure in the face of such an exciting noise. He kicked up the plastic sheet as he scampered over to Harry and clambered up into his lap, wiggling and licking. 

Harry hugged his dog to his body. Mister Pickle, seeming to sense his master's turmoil, settled against him and licked his fingers. It took several seconds of measured breathing before Harry could hand the gun back to Arthur and trust his hand not to shake. 

"Will that be all, sir?" he said, forcing himself to meet the man's eyes. 

"Yes, Mr. Hart," said Arthur. He took the blank-loaded gun and tucked it away. 

Harry rose on unsteady feet. The plastic crinkled under his shoes as he carried his dog out of that splendid room. He didn't feel safe until the door was closed behind him. 

Mister Pickle, who was used to following Harry everywhere on his stubby legs, seemed to be enjoying the attention. He made himself comfortable in Harry's arms. Harry tightened his fingers on the coarse fur and kept walking. They'd let him keep the dog, he realized. The only reason they'd given the candidates dogs in the first place was for the purpose of the test he'd just passed. What purpose did they serve now? 

Harry looked down at the little terrier in his arms. He supposed that whenever he looked at him for the rest of his life he'd remember that moment, sitting across from Arthur, the gun in his hand, making that choice. Perhaps they let the candidates keep their dogs as a reminder of how far they were willing to go to follow an order. 

With a flash of defiance, Harry realized that that didn't apply to him. For the rest of his life Mister Pickle would instead remind him of the depth of his trust in Merlin. 

He needed air. Instead of going back down to the dorms, he turned toward the foyer. It was the first truly sunny day they'd had in weeks. When he opened the door the brightness of the courtyard dazzled him and for a moment he stood there squinting and blinking. 

So he didn't see who was coming up behind him until she'd grabbed his elbow and was steering him down the steps and out onto the path that twisted around the grounds. "Walk with me, Harry," said a voice he had not heard in months. 

"Aunt Regina?" he sputtered. 

"Shut up, dear," said Regina as she continued to walk briskly, dragging Harry after her. She led him across the lawn, around the freshly-repaired fountain, and into the trees. Harry clung to his dog and followed her. Mentors were not supposed to have unsupervised contact with their proposals during the training process to prevent knights from leaking information about upcoming tests. And while this rule was occasionally bent, Harry didn't think this was sanctioned activity at all. Finally, when they were far from the mansion and out of range of any camera or microphones, Regina stopped. "Pardon my French," she snapped, "but what did I _fucking_ say?"

Mister Pickle was squirming in Harry's arms, so he put him down. The dog frolicked in the underbrush as Harry quailed under his aunt's glare. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said. 

"Let me refresh your memory. About a lesson that you should have learned back in Germany?" 

Harry blushed from ears to neck. "I haven't..." he tried.

But Regina was still talking. "That was a very important test you just took, and Merlin _handed_ the answer to you. Don't deny it. I know you two think you're subtle, but there are cameras in his workshop, too."

"Merlin just gave me some advice."

"He gave you reason to believe that the gun wasn't loaded. When that is the entire point of the test!"

Then the penny dropped. "Does that mean you believed the gun was loaded when you shot your own dog?" he asked, gaping in horror. 

"You're damn right I did," said Regina, unflinching. "As did every knight in the service. Merlin seems to think the test is about trust, but he's wrong. It's about loyalty. It's about following orders even if it means forfeiting your soul. You might be ordered to sacrifice a hostage one day, or allow innocent people to become collateral damage, or even kill someone you consider a friend. When that happens, the guns won't be loaded with blanks. Merlin shouldn't be trying to protect you from that just because he likes you."

Harry crossed his arms, trying to look resolute though he was feeling a bit lightheaded. "If Merlin likes me, then he likes me," he said. "And I'm not going to apologize for liking him. I don't care what people think."

Regina prodded his chest with a bony finger. "If you care so little for your own reputation," she hissed, "spare a thought for his. He is tasked with overseeing your training and exams. He is your teacher. Any hint of impropriety, and he could lose everything he's worked for."

Harry swallowed hard. "I promise you, there is nothing improper going on," he said.

"Good." Then Regina sighed, and her voice softened. "Harry, no one wants you to be Galahad more than I do. But if you seduce that boy, I will throw you out myself."

"No one is seducing anyone!" Harry protested. 

"Then it had better stay that way. You're in a compound full of spies. Sooner or later someone other than me is going to catch you two making eyes at each other. God help you if it's Arthur." 

"You don't need to worry about that," said Harry, earning a quirk of an eyebrow from Regina. He managed a smile. "Arthur thinks I fancy Abigail."

He'd been right. Regina laughed until she snorted in a very unladylike way. She was still giggling as they walked back up the path to the mansion, Mister Pickle snuffling his way through the grass after them. It was only then that Harry thought to ask about the other candidates. 

"Ms. Winter didn't hesitate, of course. The girl is a machine," Regina told him. "Mr. Richardson was a good little soldier, though I think if it hadn't been a blank we would have had to send him to our on-site psychologist afterwards. Mr. Lyons broke down in tears, but he pulled the trigger eventually." 

"And Alan?"

"He went after you. Ask him yourself when you get back to the dorm." 

But Harry didn't need to wait that long. As they came back up to the courtyard, there was a taxi waiting at the bottom of the entryway steps. Alan Oldridge, red-faced and looking on the verge of angry tears, stormed out the front door with his hand on the collar of his beautiful Golden retriever. Alan didn't seem to notice Harry and Regina watching from a distance. He got in the car with his dog. A minute or two later, a uniformed driver appeared and took Alan away. 

"Well, that answers that," said Regina, and she went inside. 

Harry stood in the courtyard and watched the cab as it disappeared around the corner. He had never liked Alan. The man had been entitled, aloof, and petulant since day one. But Harry could take no joy in the manner of his leaving. Perhaps Alan had not been loyal enough for Kingsman, but in Harry's estimation he had been loyal to a creature who he had raised and who trusted him above all others. 

Regina was right. Merlin had risked much to give Harry such timely advice. Harry owed him. Because without Merlin, he was not at all sure that he wouldn't also be taking a cab back to London.


	6. Laphroaig

The dorm room echoed with the click of the door latch as Harry entered. Three people filled a space once occupied by eight. Fred was huddled on his bed, hugging his dog around his neck, his eyes still red. Garrett seemed calm as he thumbed through their latest homework – a practical problem on coordinating a nighttime reconnaissance mission – but Lady lay next to him instead of on her cushion in the corner, and one of his hands was resting on her back. 

"Where's Abigail?" said Harry, looking at her empty bed. 

"Out jogging," Garrett grunted. 

"Is she okay?"

Garrett just shrugged. 

They spent a gloomy and contemplative evening as they recovered from the harsh lesson, and the next day they squared their shoulders and stepped back into their training without pause. But perhaps they kept their dogs a little closer, and perhaps they looked at each other a little more warily. The stakes had never been clearer. One moment of hesitation and it would all be over. They might have eliminated half the field, but there was still only one spot at Arthur's table. 

When their classes were done for the day, Fred surprised them all by slinking back into the dorm with a backpack on his back and an expression on his face like a cat that had just figured out how to get the hamster cage open. 

"Where have you been?" Abigail demanded. 

"Around," said Fred, his Cheshire cat grin widening. 

"What's in the bag?" Garrett sighed. 

"Well," said Fred as he slung the backpack off his shoulder and set it down with a gentle clink of glass, "we may not be allowed to leave the base, but my old mates in the demolitions department are. I called in a couple of favors and they managed to cloak-and-dagger a little something through security for us..." He unzipped the backpack to reveal three six-packs of Guinness and an enormous bag of crisps. 

The effect was instantaneous. Harry, Abigail, and Garrett leaped to their feet. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Garrett hissed. "We're not allowed to have outside food on the base. We're sure as hell not supposed to have alcohol!" 

"Come on, guys!" said Fred. "We've been cooped up here for months. We've been through hell and back. And look, when it's all said and done, _it's gonna be one of us_. That's worth a little celebration, am I right?" 

Abigail crept closer to peer into the bag as she said, "I appreciate the sentiment, but Garrett's right. We shouldn't be... oh my God, are those salt and vinegar?" 

Harry was aching for a taste of beer. But he made himself say, "Fred, they could kick you out for this." 

Fred took out two bottles and opened them. "They can't kick out all four of us," he said. 

"Give it here, then," said Harry. 

Abigail dove on the crisps. After a moment, Garrett sighed and took the other bottle of Guinness, saying, "Fine, but only to cover your arse." 

The first few sips of beer made them all glance at each other and giggle nervously. Since they'd been at Kingsman, they might as well have been at boot camp in Antarctica for all the trouble they were allowed to get into. The only alcohol that had passed their lips in that time was for their class on wine tasting, and they hadn't even been given enough to get properly buzzed. As much beer as they could drink and a private place to drink it in was almost too good to be true.

As it turned out, it was. 

"I don't know what in your experience in this compound," a disembodied voice said from the ceiling in a clipped tone and a Scottish accent, "has led you to believe that you can flagrantly disobey regulation in an area that you know to be camera-equipped."

Garrett turned a little grey and Abigail snorted her half-swallowed mouthful of beer through her nose. Fred scowled up at the ceiling. "Real question is," Fred muttered, "why is that pervert watching the video feed of our bloody bedroom at ten in the fucking nighttime? Does he even sleep?" 

"Microphone-equipped, too," Merlin remarked casually. Fred paled. 

Abigail leaned in close and whispered so softly that Harry could barely make it out. "He wouldn't really report us, would he?" 

"Don't worry," Harry whispered back. Then he took another quaff of beer and addressed the ceiling, "Come on, Merlin. You know we've earned this." 

Merlin didn't give an inch. "Pour the bottles out and I won't forward the video to Arthur." 

The others started slumping toward the sinks. Harry stopped them. "I'll handle this," he said. "You all carry on." 

He stuffed a handful of crisps in his mouth, snagged a second bottle of beer, and called to Mister Pickle as he left the dorm and his friends behind. A few turns and corridors later, he was outside Merlin's workshop. 

When he opened the door, Merlin had already turned his chair to face him, scowling. On the screen behind him were the video feeds for the dorm and for several empty hallways – Merlin had been watching his approach. 

" _No,_ Harry," he said, crossing his arms. 

Harry slid closer, waggling one of the bottles in front of Merlin's face. "I brought one for you."

"Harry, you're going to get us both in trouble."

"Literally no one is watching these video feeds but you. Have a fucking beer."

Merlin stared, his eyebrows slowly scrunching together. 

Harry pointed with the neck of his beer at the screen. Back in the dorm, the other three candidates had splayed out on one of the empty beds. Garrett slouched on the edge, his soldierly posture relaxed for once as he opened his second beer. Fred sat cross-legged with his back against the wall. Garrett said something and Fred laughed with all his teeth showing. Abigail lay on her stomach, propped up on her elbows. She alternated stuffing crisps into her mouth and downing half a bottle of beer at a time. She already had two empties on the mattress next to her. Her smile was broad and genuine, and every time Fred laughed a little too long she reached across and slugged his shoulder. 

"They need this," said Harry. "They deserve this. You, too." And he put the bottle down on Merlin's desk. 

After a moment, Merlin relented and took a sip. "You're a bad influence, Hart," he said, suppressing a smile. 

Harry hopped up and made himself comfortable on the desk. "You love it." 

They held each other's gaze as they raised their beers to their lips again. When Merlin swallowed, he squinted and grimaced. 

"What's the matter?" said Harry. 

"I'm not much of a beer drinker," Merlin admitted as he gamely swallowed another mouthful. 

Harry gaped at him. "It's not just _beer_ ," he said. "It's _Guinness_." He demonstrated by downing the last of his bottle and plucking Merlin's out of his hands. "I'll drink it if you're not going to enjoy it." 

"Fine, I'll just get myself a real drink," said Merlin, pushing himself out of his chair. He crossed to the door that hid his bedroom, ducked inside, and reappeared with two glasses and a long-necked green bottle full of amber liquid. He cracked the bottle open as he settled back into his seat. It wasn't until then that Harry caught a glimpse of the label and recognized it as eighteen-year-old Laphroaig.

"Now you're talking!" He quickly finished the rest of the beer – being sure to savor it – and accepted a glass from Merlin. The Guinness was deep and sweet with a flash of bitterness as he swallowed it down. The scotch was earthy and warm. One glass lit a fire in his chest and lightened his head. 

"Don't tell the others about this," said Merlin as he refilled Harry's glass. "I'm not planning on sharing it with just anyone."

"I don't blame you," Harry replied with a cheeky grin. "Where did you get a bottle of scotch that's older than you are?"

Merlin squinted, then frowned. "I'm twenty-one," he said, "so why don't you go fuck yourself?"

Harry laughed as he took another sip. "Twenty-one," he mused. "Finally, a piece of concrete information about you." 

"I'm not _that_ secretive."

"Yes, you are," Harry said with a sputtering laugh. "I've spent more time with you than anyone has since we got here, and I don't even know your name."

Merlin swirled his scotch around in his glass, pensive. "Maybe you don't know that much about me because you've never bothered to ask."

"What's your name?" said Harry immediately. 

There had never been a smugger smile than the one on Merlin's face at that moment. "Classified," he said. 

"Fuck you."

Merlin shrugged, still grinning. 

Harry nudged Merlin's knee with the toe of his shoe, setting his chair spinning. "Where are you from, then?" 

"Scotland."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I would never have guessed. Edinburgh? Glasgow?"

Merlin just smiled enigmatically. "Scotland," he repeated. 

"Do you have family?"

"Yes." Merlin didn't elaborate. 

"I'm beginning to think you weren't being completely genuine when you invited me to ask questions about you," said Harry. 

"Sorry," Merlin chuckled. "But, really, does it fucking matter? Where I came from, who I came from, even who I was? I'm Merlin now, and I like being Merlin. The last few months have been the best I can ever remember. I'm myself here. I'm myself with you. You might not know all the details of my life, but you know me. I promise."

Harry hid his blush behind his glass as he took another drink. "I certainly understand the benefits of a fresh start. There are certain things about my past that I'm perfectly happy that no one here knows."

Merlin sat up a little straighter in his chair and cleared his throat. He opened his mouth to say something, closed it again, and then said it anyway. "You mean Berlin?"

The Laphroaig turned to ethanol in Harry's mouth. "What do you know about Berlin?"

"Everything Percival does. I read her report. They gave me dossiers on all of you. Before I met you." He paused, then added, "Sorry." 

"It's... okay," said Harry as he frantically revised every impression he'd ever had about his interactions with Merlin. Finally he managed a smile and, "So you've known from the start that I fancy men. And here I was thinking I was doing a good job of blending in."

As Harry relaxed, so did Merlin with visible relief. "You're assuming I waste time trying to guess people's sexualities." 

"As if you need to guess when you're handed the answers on factsheets."

Merlin scooted the bottle of scotch toward Harry as a peace offering. "If it makes a difference, even after reading all the information they had on you, you were nothing like I expected." 

They drank in silence for a while. Harry touched his toe to Merlin's armrest and used it to pivot the chair back and forth. At first Merlin tried to plant his feet and resist as he waged a silent war of eye contact. But eventually he gave in, tucking his legs up under him and letting Harry spin him. 

"And you call _me_ a child," he muttered. 

Their conversation slid back into safer territory then: movies, lessons, music, Harry's dog, Merlin's latest tech, how if Harry would just stop dropping his guard hand when he shifted his weight then maybe he wouldn't have gotten spin-kicked in the face by Abigail three out of the last five times they'd sparred... The awkwardness melted away with the help of liquor and laughs. As Merlin drank, his shoulders loosened and his posture crumbled. His face became more earnest and open than Harry had ever seen it. When Merlin looked up at him with bright eyes and a lopsided smile, Harry felt a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the scotch. 

He lost track of the time until Merlin pointed an unsteady finger at the display behind him. Harry turned. The video feed from the dorm was still on the screen. The lights were down. Harry could make out Garrett's sleeping outline by the steady rise and fall of the blankets, and Abigail was squirming around in her sheets as she tried to get comfortable. As Harry watched, Fred staggered back from the toilets and flopped into his own bed, not even bothering to get under the covers. 

"You should join them," Merlin sighed. "We have an early day tomorrow." 

"Yeah, I know," said Harry. But he didn't stand. "You owe me one more question." 

"What?"

"One more question," Harry repeated. "And you have to promise to actually answer it this time. Then we're square. For you peeking at my dossier." 

"You already forgave me for that," Merlin reminded him. "Besides, you know, it was my job."

"One question."

"Fine."

"With a real answer."

Merlin grimaced. "Within reason."

"Most embarrassing sexual experience," Harry demanded with a flourish. "Since you already know mine."

Merlin froze. He didn't speak. He didn't blink. After a few seconds Harry wasn't even sure if he was breathing. Then, slowly, a pink tinge crept onto his cheeks. 

"Oh my God," said Harry. "You're a virgin."

"Shut up," Merlin mumbled, crossing his arms. 

"No, it... sorry," Harry stammered. "It's nothing to be ashamed about. It's just surprising."

"Why?" 

"Because you're gorgeous. You could have anyone you wanted."

"Like you had who you wanted, and that worked out so well for you?" 

"Touché." 

"Can we please just move on?"

"Right. Of course. Sorry." But instead of moving on, they sat there in awkward silence and sipped their scotch until Harry couldn't help but blurt out, "Really, never?"

" _Hart._ " 

"I'm not mocking you, I swear. I'm just curious. I mean, is there any reason in particular?

Merlin stared, his lips pursed and his back hunched. Harry saw the moment when the suspicion in his eyes flickered and faded. He uncrossed his arms and unbent his shoulders as he replied, "I'm not usually attracted to people unless they're already very close friends. And I've never had very many close friends." 

That was encouraging. But Harry still had to clarify, "People?"

"People."

"Women? Men?"

That smile again. "People," said Merlin. 

Harry kicked Merlin's chair again, but didn't pry further. "I'm not like that," he said. "I know right away when I want to shag someone."

Merlin made a face. "How do you even know if you like them?"

"I figure it out as I go," said Harry. "Sometimes I'm disappointed. And sometimes I'm pleasantly surprised." 

"Have I surprised you?" said Merlin quietly. 

Hardly knowing what he was doing, Harry set his glass down and rocked forward until his feet found the floor. He pushed himself upright. One hand swung out to rest on Merlin's thigh. He stood over him, teetering. Merlin looked up at him with his lips parted and, for one instant, it almost looked like he might lean forward to meet Harry halfway. 

But a glimpse out of the corner of Harry's eye stopped him: the bottle of Laphroaig stood on the desk beside them. Hadn't it been full when they'd started? When had so much of it disappeared? He looked back at Merlin – body loose, face dreamy, cheeks flushed, eyes unfocused. 

... Shit. 

Harry stood up as straight as he could manage and reluctantly slid his hand off Merlin's knee. "I should get back to the dorm."

Merlin's hand lifted off the armrest and hovered in midair, as if it might reach out and pull Harry back. But it didn't, and he said, "Yeah, okay." 

Walking away felt like a punch in the gut, but Harry put one foot in front of the other until he was tiptoeing into the darkened dorm and sliding as quietly as possible into bed. Mister Pickle leaped up to nestle against Harry's feet. He let out a huge sigh, perhaps as disappointed in the night's ending as Harry was. All that talk of romantic preference, and they couldn't even get it out that they preferred each other. 

But Regina had been right. Merlin had too much to lose, and Harry knew firsthand how quickly a career could be ruined by impatience and indiscretion. It would be safest if he could put his feelings aside completely. 

As soon as the thought occurred to him, he groaned aloud and ground the heels of his hands against his eyes. His feelings weren't about to listen to reason. They'd settled into his chest like hot lead, curling themselves around his ribs until they were inextricable. Maybe one day he'd be able to look at Merlin without feeling their grip, but he couldn't see how, and he didn't particularly want to. His feelings weren't going anywhere. 

He would kiss him one day, Harry decided. He would finish what he'd started earlier that night. He'd kiss him, and more. But on that day they'd be sober, and aware of the consequences, and equals. 

He'd kiss him one day, when he was Galahad. 

And with that thought, Harry drifted off to sleep.


End file.
